


they'll name a city after us

by cherryvanilla



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:45:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"tourists stop and stare at us." - Written for the multi-fandom winter fic fest</p>
            </blockquote>





	they'll name a city after us

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary by Regina Spektor.

A few months after the Fischer job, Eames joins a gig in London and invites you on point. It’s minimal risk, even less exciting, and goes swimmingly. Eames convinces you its safe enough to hang around about. “Let me show you my old stomping grounds, darling,” he offers with excitement. He tries not to look shocked when you actually agree. The truth is, you enjoy his company even if you’d rather Chinese water torture than admit this fact. He takes you to a cozy café for tea (a latte for you) and then makes you walk with drinks in hand around the streets, snow covered sidewalks of London along the River Thames. The air is frigid and it’s nearly 11pm when he leads you to the London Eye.

It’s gorgeous: blue lights backlit against snowfall, causing the white flakes to sparkle and glisten around you. You both stand and take in the view for long seconds, shoulders touching lightly.

“I’d love to take you up there,” he murmurs. “You’ll have to grant me the pleasure of an extended stay.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him, opting not to give the suggestion much purchase. He turns his head and you feel his eyes on you but he says nothing. Your drinks long since discarded, you long for something to do with your hands. That’s when you notice his hands are still bare, and he’s holding them in front of his lips, blowing slightly.

“Really, Mr. Eames,” you chastise but it comes out more teasing than you’d like. You turn to him, looking him up and down pointedly. It’s more of an excuse to drink your fill rather to expose his abhorrent lack of warm clothing for wintertime. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket, dark jeans and a white T-shirt that’s peeking out from beneath his collar. You’re not used to seeing him this dressed down and said as much earlier today to which he responded something akin to opting for comfort in his motherland. You told him he never really places much effort into sartorial choices in general and he held his hand to his heart as if wounded.

Naturally, you have a second pair of gloves. When you pull out your spare, his eyes light up. Before you realize what you’re doing, his hands are in yours and you’re pulling the gloves on his fingers. Your brain catches up with your actions, then, and when the last digit is secure, you glance up at him slowly. The snow is lightly coating your eyelashes and your pulse is thudding; you try not to look as stricken as you feel.

He’s gazing at you quizzically and slightly awestruck. Then his gloved fingers extend to your scarf. “This is nice,” he murmurs, stroking the material.

“Thanks,” you croak. And then he reels you in by the hem of fabric until you’re a breath away from his mouth.

“My lips are cold too,” whispers Eames. His words lack the leering tone you expected. In fact, they’re more of a warning … a chance to get away. You miss your chance and realize you never even considered taking it.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Eames’ lips are indeed cold. They’re also chapped and rough and fucking fantastic; you run your tongue across them. He groans lowly and pulls you closer by your scarf. When all the oxygen has left your brain and you’re panting and breathless against him, he releases you. You’re about to open your eyes when you feel a finger at your lips. “Stay there,” he murmurs. His voice is an octave lower and the sound goes straight to your groin. You can’t believe your eyes are closed and you can’t believe you listen to him. You wait, body thrumming with nervous energy.

“Arthur,” he calls and you recognize he’s at least fifty feet away. When you open your eyes, you see white.

The snow is dripping down your cheeks and before you can so much as blink he’s down on his knees again, gathering up his next bit of ammunition. His eyes are sparkling in the soft gleam of light as he throws the next snowball.

“You bastard!” you call out, and then you’re shaking with laughter and engaging in an impromptu snowball fight in front of The London Eye which will hopefully end in nakedness at Eames’ flat later this evening.

When he tackles you into the icy ground and presses his body to yours, caressing your cheek with a snow slicked gloved hand you honestly can’t remember a better time.


End file.
